Overload
by trufflemores
Summary: 5.04. Mozzie's drug is potent.


"Next time you hit me with a train – don't wake me up."

"Noted."

Neal lifted a hand, unveiling a single squinted eye. "Peter?"

"Good evening, champ," Peter said, holding out a glass of water to him. "I hope this foray into illicit narcotics taught you a valuable lesson."

"Oh, God, Peter, please don't use big words right now," Neal groaned, sitting up slowly and taking the drink. "How did you even get up here this late – ah."

"Is he up?" Elizabeth's voice preceded her into the living room, arms folded, brows creased in concern. "Hey, honey," she said, the endearment slipping past her notice. "How are you feeling?"

"Peachy," Neal said, struggling valiantly to keep both eyes open. He dropped his head into his hands and rubbed his temples, thoroughly disheveled. "How long was I out?"

"Well, it's –" Peter made a show of shaking back his sleeve to check his watch, his voice deep and deliberate as he finished, "2:18. So almost three hours."

"I've gotta get back to Mozzie, he's gotta be worried sick—"

Peter put a placating hand on Neal's forearm, arresting his movement. "He's fine. He stopped by earlier. Said he'd take you home."

A tiny smirk curled Neal's lips in spite of himself. "Wrist curls were mentioned, weren't they?"

"They were indeed." With an amused shake of his head, Peter retrieved the decorative pillow Neal passed him dazedly.

Attempts to stand were swiftly aborted when a wave of pain swept over his skull.

"Easy," Peter chastised, resting a hand on his upper arm again. "Do we need to go to the hospital?"

The offer almost made Neal laugh. The last time he'd been admitted to a hospital, he'd had three broken ribs; window jump gone awry. He wasn't going back again short of dire circumstances. "No, no," he said, batting a hand at the air dismissively. "I'm good." Flashing his best boy scout smile, he added, "What would you even tell them? 'Hi, I'm Special Agent Peter Burke and my CI overdosed on homemade Valiu—'"

He never made it to the end of the sentence, promptly vomiting on the Burke's admittedly tasteful living room rug.

* * *

Peter was nothing if not a good-to-his-word man.

"Hi," he greeted the ER receptionist, "I'm Special Agent Peter Burke and my CI overdosed on homemade Valium."

Neal, for his part, leaned against him and scowled thunderously.

* * *

"I don't like doctors," Neal declared flatly.

"That doesn't surprise me," Peter replied, flipping the page of his outdated _National Geographic._ "But you took an illegal drug without medical supervision and had an adverse reaction." Turning the page neatly, he finished, "That sounds like a good reason to be here."

Neal glared at a far point on the wall and said nothing. He hunched his shoulders and willed relaxation therapy to the forefront of his mind. The last thing he needed to be was _anxious_ in front of _Peter._

Still, his fingers fidgeted. His forehead shone in the strangely dull fluorescent, his breathing picking up until only a truly somatic detective remained unaware of the nervous shuffle of his movements.

Peter actually opened his mouth to comment when the nurse called his name. Using the immediacy of the situation to his advantage, Neal smiled at her and followed her into the triage section under his own power. Settling into a chair, he focused on the formality of the conversation to calm his mind. All she needed were cool, calm, clipped responses. To his dismay, he performed almost as well as he had at the Burke's: his tongue tripped over the words and his heartbeat stuttered in his chest. He had to request repeats before he was able to give the correct responses. By the time she clapped a blood pressure cuff around his arm, he felt wrung out, dazed by his own incompetence.

Lost in his own thoughts, he missed the leading trail of the conversation that ended with her opening a fresh pack containing a syringe. He chuckled, immediately certain that she couldn't be serious. When he realized that she needed a blood sample, his geniality vanished. "That won't be necessary," he told her.

"It's standard procedure, Mr. Caffrey," she replied, her tone acquiring a softer edge as she added, "this won't take long."

So it didn't. But every second dragged on until Neal could scarcely restrain himself. His cordial smile lost its luster, his face losing every ounce of color. When she stuck a bandaid over his arm, he forced himself to say, "I'm going to pass out."

The last thing he noticed was Peter's entrance, flashing his badge like a get-out-of-jail-free card to gain admittance, worry sketched across his face as darkness overtook him.

* * *

When Neal awoke, he was lying on a gurney. The memories were immediate and visceral.

"I swear I didn't do anything, I didn't touch anything, I just needed to borrow Dr. Powell's fax machine, please don't touch me, don't touch me, I'll come quietly, just let me talk to Dr. Powell," he rambled feverishly.

Peter strung an arm underneath his shoulders and pulled him upright, a one-armed hug. "Breathe," he told him, that single, solid syllable forcing air into Neal's chest, equally irresistibly forcing it out.

Eyes glazed with panic, Neal turned and said, "I'm all over surveillance, they saw my _face,_ I'll never make it out."

"I destroyed the tape," Peter reassured.

Neal's eyes went wide with disbelief. "You – you tampered with evidence?"

There was a sound like a sigh and a laugh that came from Peter, then, as he stood up and planted a hand on Neal's head, giving it a soft, friendly shake. "You're honestly one of the dumbest people I've ever met," he said, but his voice was light, teasing, and Neal knew he didn't mean it. "You would've done the same for me."

"Peter," Neal said, attempting to put into words his gratitude, but then he was dragged down, down, down, and the only thing he was aware of was Peter's shoulder, solid and warm underneath his face.

* * *

Later Neal would block the tears from his memory, but they were there, and he was only slightly ashamed that Peter was there to witness them.

"I let her die," he whispered, over and over, tears pouring from his eyes. "I let her die, Peter."

The Valium portion of Mozzie's drug kicked in before he could register Peter's response, part of his brain shutting off as the doctor finally reentered the room. Lights were shone in his eyes and talk of admission was given, but in short time he was being rebundled into his jacket and escorted out of the building by his handler.

He didn't remember falling asleep, just the gentle click of a seatbelt and the rolling ignition of Peter's car.

Next thing he knew, he was gone.

* * *

He woke up with Peter's arm underneath his shoulders, cajoling him across the sidewalk.

"You're strong," he whispered.

"Hell I am," Peter grunted.

When they finally made it inside, it was nothing short of a miracle, Elizabeth's warm, trim arm supporting him on his opposite side.

"Thanks, honey," Peter grunted in a far more affectionate way, breath punched out of him as he laid Neal down on the couch.

There was a moment when Satchmo licked his hand, waiting with tail wagging for a response, but Neal scarcely tucked a rough, decorative pillow under his cheek before the night called again.

He couldn't actually remember the last time he slept so deeply.

* * *

"He's sweet," Elizabeth said, tucking a blanket across Neal's body. "Indelicate at times, but well-meaning."

Staring at his CI all but _drooling_ on his couch, Peter huffed.

" _Indelicate_ is the right word," he said at last.

He'd never say it, but it was nice to have Neal home, under his roof and watch. Not because he didn't trust Neal (of course he didn't), but because he didn't trust the influences Neal succumbed to. He didn't trust the man Neal Caffrey could become, unguarded, lacking motivation.

Without Kate, his high hopes for a romantic future had been dashed. Sara's untimely exit from his life cast a similarly despondent forecast on his future.

With a start, Peter realized just how _lonely_ Neal was. He had Mozzie, of course, but Mozzie's companionship was a stretch at best and a nuisance at worst. He had his coworkers at the office, but Jones and Berrigan were scarcely the sort of people Neal asked out for drinks (they'd wring him dry for details about his illicit past). Hughes wasn't so much a mentor figure for him as a forbidding reminder of the law, and Hughes' absence had been largely unfelt in the circuit of Neal's life.

Siegel had mattered. The emotion that clouded Neal's eyes when Peter had brought him up had been unmistakable. Whatever it was, Siegel had mattered.

"Peter?" Elizabeth had her hand on the light switch, ready to leave Neal and Satchmo in peace as they snored companionably beside each other. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah," Peter said, staring at his CI with a strangely intense awareness of his loneliness. "Everything's fine. Go on up, I'll be right there."

With a nod, El crossed the floor and kissed Satchmo's head, tucking the blanket up to Neal's chin and leaving with a final stroke to his shoulder.

The light flicked off and Neal stirred. "Dad?"

Peter's heart twisted. "Just me, bud."

"Missed you," Neal whispered, oblivious, before dropping off again.

Peter squeezed a hand over his eyes, willing the emotion to stay at bay. Whatever happened, Neal was his responsibility. His well-being depended on Peter. He couldn't go outside his radius, he couldn't choose his lifestyle, he couldn't even choose his hours or work. He had to oblige Peter's standards, Peter's protocol, Peter's conditions. He had to show up to work with a smile on his face and an ingenious plan already cooking in that magnificent mind of his or he'd face criticism. His work was tireless and, often, thankless, and it wasn't Neal's fault that his life was full of such long odds.

Seeing him in a moment of respite, Peter recalled for the first time in a long time that Neal was, above all, human.

* * *

Neal didn't stir when he carefully slid the pillow underneath his head, supplementing the dingy couch cushions with something noticeably comfier. It was gratifying to see him relaxed; almost as restful as a job well done. Leaving Satchmo on guard and trusting Neal to behave while unconscious, Peter gave in to the siren song of sleep and headed upstairs.

El welcomed him with a soft smile and open arms when he slid into bed beside her with a sigh.

"What am I going to do with him?" he asked, half-serious, half-rhetorical as sleep crept over him.

El rubbed his arm, answering simply, "The best you can."

Peter sighed, closing his eyes and willing it to be enough – for him, for Neal, for everyone.

Following the rabbit hole Neal had already found, he surrendered at last to sleep.


End file.
